


1917

by MsBluesunflower



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe, Bucky died in the fall and was reborn, Canon Divergence, Darcy and Peggy are rad, Growing Old Together, M/M, Multimedia, Reincarnation, angst with happy ending, movie compliant, tweets, writer!Bucky
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-21
Updated: 2015-08-19
Packaged: 2018-04-10 13:11:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 15,452
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4393232
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MsBluesunflower/pseuds/MsBluesunflower
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Born on March 10th, 1985 at the Brooklyn Hospital Center, James Buchanan “Bucky” Barnes was named after Sergeant Barnes, Captain America’s childhood best friend, who died when he fell off a train in the Swiss Alps.</p><p>In 2008, Peggy Carter donates to the Smithsonian letters Captain Rogers wrote to Sergeant Barnes in 1944—</p><p>After he fell.</p><p>Some lives are eternally entwined.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 1917

“Sorry about the blood in your mouth. I wish it was mine.

I couldn’t get the boy to kill me, but I wore his jacket for the longest time.”

-Richard Siken,  _Little Beast_

_December 2008_

 

_Snow._ _  
_

_The wind is blowing harshly, making sharp, invisible cuts on his face, and he can see nothing but snow._

_Yet through the heavy snow there were those blue eyes, dark and piercing and—pained._

_And a hand is reaching out to him, desperate, like that person is drowning, in need of saving._

_But he’s the one in need of saving, right?_

_He’s holding on to something metal—something cold. He can see now, they’re on a train. The man is calling his name, like it’s the last time._

_Then he’s falling, or maybe he’s flying—he doesn’t know which. The man is disappearing before him and those eyes—those heavenly blue eyes—dim in a heartbeat._

_He hits the ground, he thinks. But he barely has time to feel the pain reverberating through his body before everything’s gone._

 

He wakes up at around 2 am, cold sweat dripping down his back and a name on his lips.

“Steve.”

It’s the 15th time that month. Or maybe the 16th. He’s not quite sure.

 

James Buchanan Barnes—

Born on March 10th 1985 at the Brooklyn Hospital Center, he was named after Sergeant Barnes, Captain America’s childhood best friend, who died when he fell off a train in the Swiss Alps.

It was _definitely_ the best idea his parents ever had.

Bucky—yes, his nickname is also Bucky—actually means this with all his heart. It isn’t so bad to be named after a war hero, especially not one who’s featured in all sorts of comic books. It’s actually the only reason he had any friends in middle school.

But there’s a price that comes with it.

He’s had dreams about Steve Rogers for as long as he can remember. Of course, it’s probably just the result of the buildup of information from stories, movies, comic books, the long-ass WWII chapter in his history textbook, and the Buy War Bonds poster on his wall—

Just a weird perk of his otherwise extremely uninteresting life, if you ask him.

He’s learned to live with it, quite well actually. That man is the last thing he sees every night before he drifts to sleep, and is all he knows before he wakes up in the morning light.

Blond, blue eyed—an angel. Sometimes he’s muscular, strong, Adonis in mortal form. But sometimes he’s scrawny, his spine fragile like a thin branch that might snap any second. He’s coughing up his lungs, face all beaten up—dark circles around his eyes and bruises on his cheeks. But either way he’s there.

That man—

Steve Rogers.

 

In half of his dreams they’re in this tiny apartment—in Brooklyn, he guesses. They never have enough food, so he always pretends to dislike something and tips it onto Steve’s plate. He steals, sometimes—mostly just medicine from the drug store a block away, but once in a while some paint and paintbrushes from the art supply shop down the avenue. He tells Steve he got paid extra for his hard work. Steve believes him. Or pretends to anyway.

When winter comes, there’s barely any heat going in the room. So they curl up together underneath the pile of battered blankets, hands linked and legs tangled.

They keep each other warm.

 

_“Stevie.” He whispers, nose buried in his soft hair, “Warm enough for ya?”_

_“Yeah.” Steve nods, voice trembling._

_“Christ, why you always gotta be such a stubborn asshole?” He shifts the blankets so they form a cocoon-like shell that traps all the heat in, before he can turn Steve over and press his head to his chest._

_“Is this helping?” He asks rather nervously._

_But then Steve chuckles—_

_“You’re always helping, Buck.” He nuzzles even closer, “You help me breathe.”_

 

But in the other half they’re in the War. Those dreams are swallowed up in smoke and drowned in the blasting of gunshots. He sees Steve in his brand new military uniform, his hair golden like rays of sunlight. He sees him at the head of the table, giving command like he’s born for it.

But there are others around him now, new friends and followers. There are dames too. Because of course, who doesn’t want to put their hands on that gorgeous body?

So he watches, but doesn’t try to get close.

Not as close as he used to anyway.

_“You like her, don’t you?” He asks once they’re in their tent, alone, because he simply can’t stand it anymore._

_“Who?” Steve looks genuinely confused._

_“Carter, that’s who.”_

_“Oh.” Steve hesitates for a second, “Peggy’s—nice. When we first met, she didn’t belittle me just because of how I looked. That was unusual, I suppose.”_

_“She someone you think you wanna marry?”_

_“Bucky!” Now Steve blushes, “We’re still fighting a war.”_

_“Well, never too early to think about it, right?” He shrugs, turning away so Steve can’t see his face. “Maybe we can live right next to each other, white picket fence and everything. It’d be real nice.”_

_Steve’s face falls all of a sudden, and he doesn’t want to think about why._

_“Yeah—It would be.”_

 

The thing about these dreams, when Bucky studies them in details, is that they feel way too real. The sounds of bombs going off, the thrill that runs down his spine when he puts his finger against the trigger—

And the outburst of visceral pain when he sees Steve standing together with Carter.

It’s a feeling more intense than a blow to his stomach or a bullet through his shoulder. It’s as if someone has just ripped his heart out of his ribcage so fast and merciless he doesn’t even get to think. Then his chest is empty, the pain is overwhelming, but the heart is still throbbing in his hand, dripping blood, struggling to stay alive.

Like it beats only for him.

—A fucking depressing thought, is what it is.

And that’s why Bucky doesn’t quite understand Sergeant Barnes.

He doesn’t quite understand how through all those fucked up, foggy feelings he remains at Steve’s side. But in those dreams he _is_ Sergeant Barnes. And he chooses to stay, every time—by Steve’s hospital bed, in the alleys Steve got beat up in, in their twin-sized bed that squeaks at night, at his six on the battlefield—

It never made sense to him—the overwhelming urge to defend Steve Rogers, in every way possible, in dreams or reality. He punched a football jock back in high school for saying ‘Captain America was a big fat lie’ in his US history class. Call it an obsession, because there sure ain’t any other word for it. All he’s had were broken images of him that vanishes at the break of dawn. It’s not real but he swears to God he can feel it deep inside his bones—the warmth that radiates off of his body when Bucky stands close is like gravity, and it pulls on him so he can’t break free.

Untouchable, yet he’s more real than anything Bucky’s ever touched.

 

His mother used to say—“Steve Rogers was a real hero.”

He remembers disagreeing with it ever since he knew what the statement meant. He doesn’t know why exactly, but something in him instinctively sees the wrong in that idea, as if it’s a personal offense to him.

“No mom, Captain America was the hero. Steve Rogers was just a man.”

 

_April 2007_

_“…Created solely for political purposes, ‘Captain America’ was more of an abstract, all-encompassing idea rather than an actual person. After his original missions—solidifying wartime national identity and encouraging financial contributions from the American public—were more than successfully accomplished, it seemed that ‘Captain America’ would be remembered by posterity for no more than a war bonds advertisement. However, after Steve G. Rogers single handedly rescued the 107 th Infantry Regiment in Azzano, the expectation for ‘Captain America’ had risen from ‘a morale booster’ to ‘an all-American hero’. At this point, the reality behind the pretense of glory and altruism became grossly overlooked: Steve G. Rogers was a flawed, flesh-and-blood human being. The complex dimensions of his personality and spirit were inevitably lost in the OWI’s and the U.S. Army’s attempt to craft the image of a perfect soldier. Indeed, in the face of ‘The Greater Good’, the sacrifice of one man’s freedom and individuality would’ve seemed like no sacrifice at all. But the irony it reflects remains evident, not just for America, but also for the world as a whole—If liberty for most is achieved through the oppression of some, if peace for one generation is gained through bloodshed of the previous, how blurred is the line between good and evil?”_

_(Barnes, James Buchanan. The Price of Freedom: Captain America in the Age of Media. New York University. 20 Apr 2007. )_

When he steps into that small bookstore on Princes St. for the first time in three month, the heady smell of coffee envelops him like a warm blanket, welcoming him back.

First thought— _Fucking senior thesis is finally fucking over._

So he grabs a few new arrivals from the shelf, and heads over to the coffee section to order his coffee. The barista, Liam, looks up at him, pleasantly surprised.

“Hey Barnes! Haven't seen you around in a while!”

 _Well, if you have to bring it up_ —He’s about to go on this rant about the thesis, before a familiar voice cuts in—

"He's been busy with his thesis. Am I right, James?"

Bucky turns back to find his WWII Seminar professor, Peggy Carter, standing right behind him.

Yes. _That_ Peggy Carter.

"Professor! I wasn't expecting you here." He pulls on his best gentleman smile, because she deserves nothing less. Bucky doesn’t dislike her at all. In fact, time has shown that Peggy Carter is one hell of a kickass lady.

"Well, I had no idea this place existed until a couple days ago. My niece is quite fond of it. " Peggy smiles back before turning to the barista, "I'll have some earl grey please. What about you, James?"

"Oh, professor, you don't have to —"

"I want to. Hurry, make up your mind."

Seeing that it would be rude to refuse, Bucky orders an almond latte. Liam presses a few buttons to type in the orders, and Peggy takes out her wallet to pay.

“Thank you.”

"You’re welcome. Sit with me for a bit, will you?"

"Of course, professor."

"Oh don't ‘professor’ me, Barnes. It's the end of the year already, and you know I’m leaving for D.C. very soon.” She picks a table by the window and walks over, her steps unsteady but graceful nonetheless, “Just Peggy, please.”

“Alright then,” Bucky nods as he pulls out the chair for her, “Peggy it is.”

 

“I read your paper, James.”

They’ve been sipping their drinks in a surprisingly comfortable silence for a few minutes. Bucky’s thoughts have drifted to someplace far before Peggy’s words pull him right back.

“Oh?” His head snaps up and he almost spills his latte. “What—What did you think?”

“It was very interesting.” She replies calmly, the look on her face hard to decipher.

“Uh, ya, it wasn’t—wasn’t my best work I will say. I kind of crammed last minute and the topic itself was hella deeper than I’d expected—” He rambles for a bit before he hears Peggy’s chuckles, “Um—?”

“Relax, mister. ” Peggy is still smiling as she stirs her tea gently, and the spoon makes a clinking sound. “It was very well done. It’s simply different—In a good way. Excellent way.”

“Wait—Are you serious?”

“Absolutely, James. What made you choose that topic?”

“I—Here’s the thing, I grew up reading comic books and watching cartoons that portrayed him as some saint—A messiah, almost.” He pauses and frowns, “But all along I felt that there’s something inherently wrong with that idea. So I guess I wanted to prove a point.”

Peggy nods, looking down at her teacup. “It’s rare to see someone distinguish Steve from Captain America. The last time I saw anyone making that distinction with such absolute certainty—Well, that was 1944.”

Bucky has an idea about who that person is, which actually makes him feel braver. “Do you—Do you think that’s right?”

“I think it’s very close to the truth. I agree with everything you said in your paper about media representation—It is indeed dehumanizing, to an extent. That’s unavoidable in politics. However, if anything, your opinion is the opposite extreme of the idea that Steve and Cap are one entity. Do you understand? ” She’s looking at him straight in the eye now, with every bit of seriousness.

“Care to elaborate?”

“You see—Maybe they were never truly one person, but that does not mean they didn’t have a heavy impact on each other. Steve made Captain America, and Captain America changed Steve.”

“And you know that how?” Bucky tries to sound nonaggressive, even though he may never buy into the idea. But Peggy stills abruptly, and Bucky sees something resembling pain flashing in her fierce eyes before she opens her mouth to speak again.

“Think about it: If Cap never influenced Steve, he wouldn’t have saved New York—”

Bucky frowns, before her next words shake him from the core—

“He would’ve already jumped after Sergeant Barnes in the Swiss Alps.”

 

He walks her back to her apartment later that afternoon, knowing that it’d be a while before he would see this great mentor again. Before they part, Peggy studies his face closely for a moment, a dazed look in her usually piercing eyes.

“You look so much like him sometimes it messes with my mind.”

Bucky doesn’t tell her that it messes with his own mind too.

 

 

_December 2008_

 

He leaves for work early that day—He got the job as a curator at the New York Historical Society after graduation last year, and so far it’s treating him well. When he gets there, the guard hasn’t opened the doors. So he sits on the front steps and sips his warm coffee to fight off the shivers.

The dream is still bothering him.

It’s a puzzle, and he knows for sure there are pieces missing—Pieces, if ever found, can make him whole again, fill the gut-wrenching emptiness inside him, except—

He might never know what they are.

There’s one thing he does know though—

The dream of the fall doesn’t just come at random times. It’s almost always a sign.

 

At noon, it finally comes.

He’s paying for his sandwich in the café across the street when his phone rings. He fishes it out of his coat pocket immediately. The number on the screen is unfamiliar, but the location display suggests it’s from D.C.

“Hello?”

“Mr. Barnes? This is Sharon Carter. I’m calling on behalf of my aunt Peggy. Do you have a minute?”

“Yes, yes of course, Miss Carter. Did—did something happen?” He sits down at a table in the corner, bracing himself for some bad news.

“No, not exactly. She’s fine, but her memory is getting worse and worse.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Well, here’s the thing—My aunt was in possession of some belongings of Captain Rogers, among them are some very personal letters. She was instructed by him to publicize them when she sees fit. And now—well, she thinks she won’t be able to keep them for him for much longer. She’s donated them to the Smithsonian Captain America exhibition, which opens tomorrow.” Sharon pauses, and Bucky waits nervously.

“She said—She said you’d want to go read them as soon as possible.”

 

He takes the train to D.C. later that night, gets a room at a hotel right by the Smithsonian, and lies on the bed awake until 1 am.

Whatever it is, Bucky realizes, he doesn’t have the patience to wait until morning.

He pulls some strings.

 

“Barnes, what the fuck? You better have something really important right now.” Darcy sounds _very_ pissed on the other end.

He met Darcy Lewis in his junior year, when they did a research together in summer. She was a poli-sci, incredibly smart and outrageously hilarious, so they grew close naturally. A few months ago, she told him in an email that she got a job at the Smithsonian.

“Yes, I do actually. Can you get me into the Captain America exhibition?”

“Tomorrow? Just get a fucking ticket, Barnes. You’re not that broke.” Darcy whines, her voice muffled, probably by a pillow.

“No, right now.”

And he adds after a beat of utter silence, “It’s urgent.”

 

“Jeez, Miss Darcy, you never mess up on the display labels, and definitely not right before it opens—”

Darcy meets him at the museum gate half an hour later, and somehow manages to find the museum guard.

“This’ll open the staff door. Just give it back to me tomorrow. ” The guard takes a key off of his keychain and hands it to Darcy before glancing at Bucky, “Who’s this young man?”

“Uh—he’s, uh, my boyfriend! Right—he was worried about my safety, so he’ll stay with me while I work. ” Darcy grabs Bucky’s hand and pulls him in the direction of the staff entrance, “Thanks Stan, I promise it won’t happen again!”

And as Darcy opens the door, she turns to glare at Bucky—

“You owe me one, Barnes.”

 

“Tell me again, why did you need to do this?” Darcy stares, bewildered, at Bucky who is currently gazing at the section dedicated to Sergeant Barnes. The TV screen is playing a video footage of him and Captain Rogers laughing together, so carefree as if they weren’t in the middle of a deadly war.

“Dude, you really _do_ look like him. It’s not just the name.” Darcy turns to look at the screen as well, her eyes wide, “That’s hella creepy.”

Bucky smiles wryly before he remembers, “Where are the letters?”

“Letters?” Darcy yawns, distracted, before she snaps back to reality, “Oh, letters! OH MY GOD THOSE LETTERS JESUS CHRIST YOU HAVE TO READ THEM—”

She drags him over to the glass display cases behind Sergeant Barnes’ section. There are seven, and pieces of worn paper are laid out in order. The neat cursive in black ink has faded over time, but recognizable still.

“It’s the most fucked-up tragedy. I swear to God, I started sobbing two sentences into the first one. Nobody would’ve thought that—”

“Darcy—” He interrupts.

“Hmm?”

“I need a minute. I’ll explain everything to you later, okay?”

Darcy stares at him for a second before nodding without a word.

And when she steps back, Bucky steps forward.

 

_ “I almost got shot on the back of my left shoulder last week—You’d probably yell at me for this, and give me that long lecture of yours. But the thing is, Buck, I turned around after the bullet went by me—it only grazed my uniform I swear—I turned around and looked for you, looked for you everywhere because it didn’t make sense to me how you would let that slip. But then I saw Falsworth staring right at me with those sad eyes— _

_ And I remembered. _

_ I did it the next day too. I was telling them over dinner about how you used to say that the fireworks on Fourth of July were for my birthday, and all of a sudden I couldn’t recall how I found out you had lied. So I turned to my left, opened my mouth to ask you about it before I found Peggy sitting there instead of you.  _

_ Everyone was so quiet, Bucky, you’d laugh if you’d seen their faces.” _

_July 4th 1936_

_“Here you go. From the best bakery in town.” Bucky puts the slice of cheesecake on the only white china plate they have, and brings it over to their tiny dining table. He’s been saving for that slice for two months._

_But then Steve looks at him, mixed emotions in those blue eyes, before reaching over to hug him, “Thanks, Buck.”_

_He knows Steve isn’t just talking about the cake, and in that moment Bucky thinks he’ll do anything for him—He’ll give him the sun, if that’s what he wants._

_He doesn’t say that though. Instead, he says, “The fireworks should start soon.”_

_But Steve throws his head back and laughs, “I’ve known since I was twelve that those fireworks ain’t for me, Jerk.”_

_“So what? That shouldn’t stop you from thinking that they are.” Bucky grins cheekily, grabbing Steve’s hand and trying to pull him up, “That asshole who told you? Should’ve made him pay for that.”_

_Steve follows him over to the window, their fingers laced together. “You stabbed holes in his bike tires. Isn’t that enough?”_

_The fireworks shoot up into the night sky then, bursting into vibrant colors that can light up the entire city. But when Bucky turns to look at Steve’s face, the smile he sees is brighter than any kind of firework that’ll ever exist on earth._

_And when Steve falls asleep later leaning against Bucky’s shoulder, he kisses his forehead and whispers—_

_“Happy birthday.”_

_ “It’s like this— _

_ Remember that one time in physics class in high school, when Mr. Richards told us that there are thousands of other galaxies, thousands of other suns in space, and that our sun, in the end, isn’t that special at all? And remember how I got inexplicably angry at his words, stood up like the stubborn punk that I was and told him it ain’t true? Later you laughed the whole way home because you thought I took it way to seriously.  _

_ But you didn’t know what I was thinking then, Bucky. _

_ You’re my sun—You’re all I know of this universe, my only constancy. You keep me in my orbit, and no matter how much everything else changes I just keep on going, keep on revolving around you. I don’t give a damn about how many other suns there are in space, or if they burn hotter and shine brighter—because there’ll never be another one for me. You hear me, Barnes? Never another.” _

 

_March 1933_

_“The sun is a star, because stars are the only ones that glow and give off heat. There are millions other stars like the sun out in space, so the sun is really not as special as we make it out to be—”_

_Steve stands up all of a sudden, and Bucky turns to look at him._

_“Mr. Rogers. You got something to say about that?”_

_“Yes, sir—I think, I think you shouldn’t say it’s not special. I mean—Every star’s gotta be special to the planets surrounding it, right? The sun is important, and the earth relies on it for survival. All the other stars out there—well, they ain’t gonna matter.”_

_“Good point, Mr. Rogers.” Mr. Richards nods after a moment, “But watch your manners.”_

_ “Then I thought, what if the sun dies? What if it disappears and never comes back? I worried about it so much that I went and found this monstrosity of an encyclopedia at our community library. All the jargons were Greek to me, but I understood the basics—It’s said that one day the sun would run out of fuel and stop glowing, and it’d take all life on earth with it.  _

_ And here’s the interesting part: Whatever happens to the sun, the effects won’t be felt on Earth until eight minutes after.  _

_ It sounds short, perhaps, but I tell you now—it feels like eternity. I think those eight minutes haven’t passed and might never pass for me. ‘Cause here’s the thing—You’re the light I’ll see even at the end of the world. And the gravity that pulls me toward you, that makes me revolve around you all day and all night—Well, maybe it’s against the laws of the universe but I think it’ll always be there, even after you’re gone. _

_ Tell me that ain’t pathetic, Buck. Tell me that ain’t just fucking pathetic.” _

_  
_

Bucky reads and reads, from one glass case to another. He sees it, too—sees all the way back to 1944, through more than six decades of separation. He sees Steve in bed at night after an entire day of strategy debriefing, paper on his lap, writing down words in that fucking beautiful handwriting of his like there’d be someone he can send it to.

And those images hit him fast and hard—flashbacks he’s never seen in dreams, puzzle pieces that fill up the holes in his memory, his _soul_. Bucky feels like crying, but his tears are dried up. The only thing left is the feeling of a rock pressing down on his chest, and the weight of it is making him tremble. He wants to open his mouth, to cry for help because it was all too much, too much—

But there’s no sound.

Then he gets to the seventh letter.

 

_ “This is the last one. I’m going against Schmidt, the way I’ve been hoping to since you fell. _

_ And I’m not going to come back, Bucky. I know because I don’t want to. I want to be where you are, and if crossing that threshold is the only way I’ll get there, it’s fine by me. I’ve lived twice as long as my ma had expected me to anyway.  _

_ You see—I’m just a kid from Brooklyn, not the hero they made me out to be. But I tried so hard to be him, to fit into the suit, to fight and never back down. And I thought in that way I’d be able to protect the world. And maybe I did—Maybe I protected the world, but I lost you.  _

_ And a world without you, Bucky, a world without you is no good to me at all. _

_ I wonder sometimes—What if there wasn’t a war in the first place? What if we kept on living our lives, and maybe get those two houses right next to each other, white picket fence and all? But I guess we’ll never know now. This war has swallowed us whole. And this—this is my only way out. _

_ I don’t know how this world will remember me, and I don’t really give a damn anymore. But there’s one thing they need to get right, one thing I want written in history books because there’s simply no way they can ignore it— _

_ It’s the first thing I’ll say to you when I get to the other side— _

_ I love you, James Buchanan Barnes, and I think I’ve loved you since before I learned how to breathe. _

_ I know you don’t—I know. But God do I dream. I dream of those summer nights when we would lie awake in bed, my arms around you, your head on my chest like you’re checking if my heart is still beating. I dream of the way we fit together perfectly like two halves of a whole. Skin against skin, my fingers laced with yours. I dream of the way my body burns under your touch like it caught a fever, the way you breathe hot against my neck, the way your eyelashes flutter when you look up at me, lips inches away from mine. And you’d say my name—one syllable rolling slowly off your tongue, tugging the corner of your mouth into a lopsided smile that lights a fire inside me. It’d get way too warm but you’d only pull me closer—And that, was all I know of heaven on this earth.  _

_ So maybe you’re a stone tied around my neck, maybe you’ll drag me down and make me sink. But I’ll drown gladly—I won’t even put up a fight. _

_ Just wait for me, Buck, wait for me. I’m coming home.” _

 

 

 _This is it_ , Bucky realizes then as he finally collapses to the floor, his breathing heavy, back leaning against the glass. _This is the whole truth._

_ “I think I’ve loved you since before I learned how to breathe.” _

“Darcy—” He says to the girl who’s still standing a few feet away from him with the look of concern on her face, “I think I’m _him_.”

“No, I know—I know I’m him. I’m Sergeant Barnes.”

“It’s the only explanation that makes sense, really.” Darcy pauses for a long moment, her expression torn. “Did you—did you love him?”

And the sudden struck of pain, like a stab to his heart catches him off guard. Outside the windows, he can almost see the break of dawn.

“I did.” He tells the truth eventually, “I loved him. _I loved him._ And I think I—I still love him.”

 

He’s known—He’s always known subconsciously that he’s loved Steve since way before his memory starts, since before he’s learned what love is. But he’s never quite understood _how_.

He understands now.

He belonged to him decades ago, in another body, in another world. And he still belongs to him. It's the same heart that's beating loudly at the thought of his electric blue eyes and it's the same soul, he knows, that’s living inside his flesh and blood. He hears that scream now, through space and time, through the snow falling heavily in the Swiss Alps, he hears it loud and clear, not in a dream, but in his own memory.

But it’s fire burning through his spine, it's water filling up his lungs, it's sharp claws of a beast digging into the tender flesh of his heart—it's a slow death—

To know the one he's meant to love is long gone.

 _He's the air,_ Bucky thinks, closing his eyes for a brief second.

 

The Smithsonian @thesmithsonian

“After the Fall”, a collection of seven letters written by Captain Rogers to Sergeant James Barnes featured exclusively at today’s exhibit, reveals astonishing truth about the national icon. pic.Smths/2KS20 #afterthefall #CaptainAmericaExhibition

 

New York Times @nytimes

BREAKING: Captain America’s letters to Sergeant James Barnes: “I’ve loved you since before I learned how to breathe.” @thesmithsonian nyt/SKDL35

 

Fox News @fox

Captain America: The American icon, destroyed. @thesmithsonian fox/A2L320

 

Phil Coulson @hailcaptainamerica

I can’t believe…Oh my God, how did we not know about this for so long. NO I’M NOT CRYING NOT AT ALL. #afterthefall

 

Hail Captain @rogerthat

“I’ve loved you since before I learned how to breathe.” I’m a sobbing mess right now HELP #afterthefall

 

Agent 14 @girlnextdoor

Cap wrote them AFTER Bucky died!!!!! I need to go cuddle with my bucky bear right now I’M NOT OKAY #afterthefall

 

Tony Stark @iamironman

I remember hearing my father talk about them when I was younger. But I never thought it was as sad as this. Jar, stop handing me tissues I don’t need them. #afterthefall

 

J.A.R.V.I.S @propertyoftonystark

@iamironman Sure you don’t, Sir. #afterthefall

 

Sam Wilson @ibelieveicanfly

Man that’s some tragic romance. I wish Barnes had felt the same for him. But I guess we’ll never know. #afterthefall

 

Peggy Carter @agentcarter

I would like everyone to remember: This is not about Captain America and his sniper. This is about Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes. #afterthefall

 

 

Bucky decides to stay at Darcy’s place for a break, having been exhausted from emotions.

The letters take over the Internet that afternoon, #afterthefall is trending on Twitter, but Bucky soon stops himself from reading them. He does print out the scanned copies of the letters from the NYT website, however, and puts them on his bedside table.

He dreams that night, as usual. But the dream itself is new—

 

_“We can pull out the couch cushions like we did when we were kids. I’d be fun.”_

_“Thanks Buck. But I can get by on my own._

_Steve’s looking for his keys but he can’t seem to find them. Then Bucky kicks the brick on the side, and picks up the spare key from underneath, handing it to him._

_“The thing is, you don’t have to.” And when Steve looks back up at him, he puts a hand on his frail shoulder._

_“I’m with you till the end of the line, pal.”_

He wakes up again at 2 am, staring into the dark. Then he turns on the bedside lamp and re-reads Steve’s last letter.

_He’s gone._

This time Bucky finally bursts into tears.

Darcy hears him, a few minutes later, and brings in an extra blanket and warm tea. She wraps her arms around him, but he’s still trembling violently.

“I didn’t even say it—” The words come out choked, and his breathing heavy and jagged like he’s got pneumonia, “He thought I didn’t—I didn’t—”

“Oh, Bucky.” Darcy sighs, on the brink of tears now. “I’m sure he’ll find out somehow.”

 

“Those flowers are lovely, James.” When he puts the lily bouquet into vase on her living room table, Peggy sighs, “You’ve always been such a gentleman.”

She looks exhausted, her back barely holding up that she has to lean against back of the chair. But she’s wearing a red dress today, she goddamn _glows_ in it, the way Bucky remembers her. Yet she’s also subtly different from the woman she was six decades ago. Her grace shines through the wisdom she’s found throughout the years, and it makes her all the more beautiful. In that moment, he wishes Steve’s here to see it.

“You deserve nothing less, Peggy.” He smiles, a tired one, but a smile nonetheless.

“I assume you’ve read the letters?”

He nods. And the English woman looks at him expectantly, even though she doesn’t pose a question.

“Peggy—” he sighs, “I love Steve.”

“I know.” She says lightly as she pours him some tea.

“No I mean—” Bucky swallows hard, his hands shaking a bit, “Do you believe in reincarnation?”

Peggy doesn’t look surprised. In fact, she doesn’t even raise an eyebrow.

“I did the moment I saw you for the first time.”

Bucky gapes. “You knew?”

“I trust in my intuition, James.” She smiles, “Or should I call you Sergeant Barnes now?”

But Bucky winces at that, shaking his head.

“I feel like—I feel like two people at once. I have his memories, but I don’t think I can ever be him completely.”

“Then don’t.” Shrugging, she doesn’t look bothered, “You’re not just Sergeant Barnes, James, you’re the continuation of him. You don’t have to try to be him—You already are. Just more, that’s all.”

“Do you really believe that?”

Peggy chuckles, “I do. And I think you will, too.”

“I have something else, though.” He stops and looks down, almost afraid to meet her eyes, “How did you—How do you get over losing him?”

Peggy’s hand stills then, she puts her teacup down, her brows furrowed in thought.

“I got used to it.” She says eventually, biting her lips, “But that’s different. What you had with him—it’s always been different. So I’m afraid I don’t know, James.”

He just nods, his throat dry. It hurts again, all of a sudden.

“But there’s one thing I will say,” Peggy adds, as if reading his mind, “Don’t fight it, James. Don’t fight the pain.”

 

“I’m worried about you.”

Darcy takes him to a bar later that night. They sit in a dark corner. He gulps down his vodka on the rocks while she sips at her tequila sunrise. The jazz band on the small stage is playing a 40s song. The intro sounds familiar, but he can’t put a name to it.

“Why? I’m an adult. I can worry about myself.” Bucky slams his vodka glass on the bar counter a bit too hard, “Besides, there’s nothing to worry about.”

“Bucky.” She sighs, “Stop being so stubborn. What did Peggy tell you? Don’t fight the pain. Let it hurt, man. It’s the only way it’ll heal.”

“But what if I don’t want it to heal?” He doesn’t look at her. Instead he stares at the saxophone player on stage, his blond hair reminding him of Steve, “What if I want to remember the way it hurts?”

Darcy frowns, and it’s a look that says _‘I don’t know what the fuck is wrong with you but this is making me sad’_. Then her brows unfurrow, a dawning expression on her face—she gets so excited that she almost spills her drink on her white chiffon shirt.

“You should write it down.” She downs the rest of her glass.

“What?”

“You should write a novel. About the two of you, about the war—everything you know now, write it down, and let the words remember the pain for you.”

The band is still playing that 40s jazz song, and a young woman is singing now—her voice soft like silk, soaked in melancholia.

_“You don’t know how many dreams I’ve dreamed about you,_

_And just how empty they all seemed without you.”_

_“It’s been a long, long time.”_

 

When they get back to Darcy’s apartment that night, he pulls out his phone and checks Twitter for the first time in three days. A new tweet from a guy named Sam Wilson pops up on the #afterthefall hastag page. Bucky vaguely remembers seeing his post the day the letters were released.

 

Sam Wilson @ibelieveicanfly

You know how Cap and Bucky’s remains were never found? When I was a kid I used to believe that they didn’t actually die. And now I wish it’s real, more than ever. #afterthefall

 

The tweet must’ve sparked something in him.

He falls into a new dream that night, a long and bizarre one. There was snow, ice, guns, blood, and he was an assassin with a metal arm. And there was pain—tremendous amount of pain, not just from the heavy arm or the bloody wounds, but also from that emptiness inside him. He wanders the world like a lone ghost, without memory, without a purpose other than killing, before they find Captain America in the arctic ice.

They’re fighting. The world is burning and they’re fighting each other on a helicarrier in midair. He doesn’t really know who the Captain is until he says—

“’Cause I’m with you till the end of the line.”

His raised fist doesn’t punch this time. The assassin watches him fall into the river, and Bucky startles awake, sweat soaking his shirt, a name on his lips.

“Steve.”

He knows exactly what to write now.

 

 

_February 2009_

_“When he looks up, still disoriented from whatever fucked-up experiment the Germans just did on him, he sees those familiar blue eyes, wry and scared like they’ve never been before. He doesn’t think it’s real at first, especially when he reaches out to him and feels the firm muscles on his arm that he knows he’s never had._

_“Steve?” He calls his name, tentatively._

_“Bucky.” The man breaks into a smile of relief, “I thought you were dead.”_

_“I thought—you were smaller.” He frowns, getting dizzy as he scrambles to stand up. But Steve holds on to him, with a firm grip he recognizes all too well._

_“What happened?” He asks the now taller man, over the sounds of bombs going off in a distance._

_“I joined the army.””_

Writing, as it turns out, is the best idea Darcy’s ever had.

It’s become a routine: He goes to work every day, gets home, makes himself coffee, sits at his desk, and types away on his laptop. And when Bucky lies in bed later, he falls asleep thinking about him.

He writes about how they met when they were ten—In one of the alleys in their neighborhood, on a cold rainy day. Steve was lying face down in a puddle, and the bakery owner’s son who’d just knocked him out was about to leave. Bucky walked up and punched the older boy without a word, took Steve back to his house and warmed him up.

Then, the really-sweet-but-always-sick Steve Rogers and the won’t-amount-to-anything Bucky Barnes became _Steve and Bucky._ And there it goes.

He writes about their teenage years, too—About Steve’s asthma, the nights he sat by his bed sleepless, the winters they spent without much food, and the fireworks in Coney Island.

He chooses to be honest about everything—the War, Azzano, the Commandos, and Peggy Carter. And as the length of the document grows, the more his memory emerges from the fog that separates him from his former life.

After his fall, though, the story becomes completely reliant on that dream, on fantasy.

The Winter Soldier, as Bucky named him, grows stronger and stronger in personality the more Bucky writes about him. He’s someone Bucky can relate to, a dark side to the glorious image of the “self-sacrificing best friend”. In fact, he hates that portrayal just as much as he hates equating Steve with Captain America. Because here’s the thing—He wasn’t a great man, and he probably wasn’t even a good man. He was in love with Steve, that’s all. And love, as most people know, makes one do stupid, _stupid_ things. And he must be so in love now still, because he doesn’t regret doing those things, not even a little bit.

Bucky’s always believed that happy endings only exist in fairy tales, and this sure isn’t one. But as the story goes on, he starts to understand why people are obsessed with happy endings—It’s exactly because they don’t happen in real life, people seek comfort in finding them in fiction.

And isn’t that what he’s doing—seeking comfort in fiction? He knows he and Steve won’t have their own happy ending now, so why not make one in the story? It’s not real, but it’s enough for him to fool himself.

 

Bucky finishes the story three months after the day he read the letters. He goes over it briefly, prints a copy and mails it to Darcy, like turning in an assignment, like finishing therapy.

Five days later he gets a voice message—

“Mr. Barnes. I’m an editor from Random House. We’re interested in publishing your manuscript. If you’re interested, please call me back so we can discuss this in more details. Have a nice day.”

_What the fuck?_

 

“Darcy Lewis.” He almost yells into his phone, “What the fuck did you do with my story?”

“Oh, the manuscript?” Darcy sounds nonchalant, and Bucky can hear her chewing gum, “I read it. It’s fucking good, Barnes. I sent it to a friend who works at Random House.”

“Well, that explains why I got a voice message from Random House today.” He tries to sound less menacing but fails.

“Oh, Jesse called you? Did they want to publish it?!” Darcy is getting excited, completely unaware of Bucky’s boiling anger.

“Yes!” He really yells this time, hoping that she'd pick up on the cue.

“Oh my God, that’s great!”

“No, it’s not. Fuck.” He just about facepalms, “Darcy, I don’t _want_ to publish it!”

“Wait, no? Why not? It could be a bestseller!”

“It’s too—It’s too honest, too blatant.” And he doesn't say _‘It makes me feel exposed’._

“But they’ll think it’s only fiction—and part of is, really.” Bucky can almost hear her shrugging on the other end, “Remember, though, Steve wanted the world to see who he really is. Let’s face it, who can do it better than you?”

That shuts Bucky up.

A few hours later, he calls the editor back.

 

 

_January 2010_

Barnes & Noble Staff Picks

January 2010

 

#1 _The End of the Line_ by J. B. Barnes

An exceptional first novel, _The End of the Line_ became the New York Times Bestseller within days of its release. Loosely based on the real Sgt. James Barnes, best friend of Captain America, this is a heart-wrenching story that follows the journey of a POW through seven decades of never-ending war. It captures beautifully the toil of war, the dark and light of humanity, and most importantly—The power of love.

Genre: Historical Fiction, Romance     Recommended by: Jemma

 

 

 

J. B. Barnes @thewintersoldier

Alright Twitter, let’s get the Q&A started. #TheEndofTheLine

 

Agent 14 @girlnextdoor

@thewintersoldier OMG YES! Is your name really James Buchanan Barnes?!! Like Bucky’s?!! And is that part of your inspiration for the novel? #TheEndofTheLine

 

J. B. Barnes @thewintersoldier

@girlnextdoor Yes to all of those questions. Let’s just say, my parents were fans of the comic books. Turned out to be a happy coincident (and some confusion). #TheEndofTheLine

 

Hail Captain @rogerthat

@thewintersoldier What’s your main inspiration for the novel? Also, you look a bit like Sgt. Barnes too! #TheEndofTheLine

 

J. B. Barnes @thewintersoldier

@rogerthat The #afterthefall letters, mainly. And yes, so I’ve been told. Life is weird. #TheEndofTheLine

 

Sebastian Evans @aroamingromanian

@thewintersoldier I used up a box of Kleenex reading your book. But the ending fixed it for me! Do you really think Bucky loved Steve back?

 

J. B. Barnes @thewintersoldier

@aroamingromanian I’m glad it you liked it! And no, I don’t think. I know.

 

 

_March 2012_

_“Last month, a team of hikers who ventured into the Swiss Alps discovered the dog tags that belonged to Capt. Steve Rogers during WWII._

_The discovery took the Internet by storm. The most acknowledged theory, after a series of heated online debates, suggests that Sgt. James Barnes was wearing Rogers’ dog tags at the time of his fatal fall from a train in 1944. This theory, when juxtaposed with the collection of letters donated to the Smithsonian in 2009, casts another shade of mystery on the nature of the relationship between Capt. Rogers and Sgt. Barnes._

_Ever since the 2010 historical novel, The End of the Line, rocked the publishing industry, the academia, and most crucially—the Internet, the debate about Captain America demise in 1944 has been at the center of the spotlight. Rock climbers, hikers, and campers around the world have been avid in seeking signs of Rogers and his plane in the Arctic Circle—the last location shown on the radar before the plane crashed. The discovery of Rogers’ dog tags has encouraged another wave of adventurers heading to the Arctic, funded by Tony Stark—CEO of Stark Industries. His father, Howard Stark, was the weapon supplier during WWII as well as the maker of Rogers’ famous vibranium shield._

_ The End of the Line _ _describes that the super-soldier serum, developed by Dr. Abraham Erskine in 1943 to enhance Rogers’ physical capabilities as well as moral character, preserved Rogers’ life while he slept under the ice. After learning about the recent discovery as well as the new wave of search teams, the author of the novel, J. B. Barnes (coincidentally named after Sgt. Barnes), expressed mixed feelings in an interview._

_“I’m glad that people care about him so much, and I’m surprised that they took the story so seriously.” Barnes said, “Look, maybe I’m pessimistic, but I don’t think they’d find anything. After all, I’m not a prophet.”_

_“I wish though,” He adds, after a moment of thought, “I wish.””_

(Parker, Peter. “The All-American Search Team”. _The New Yorker._ 22 Mar 2012. Print.)

 

_May 2012_

 

Nothing prepares Bucky for his wish coming true.

 

From: Darcy Lewis

OMFG TURN ON YOUR FUCKIN TV

 

From: Darcy Lewis

THIS IS FUCKING UNREAL OMG I CAN'T BELIEVE YOU WERE RIGHT

 

Hail Captain @rogerthat

@thewintersoldier HOLY SHIT ARE YOU WATCHING THE NEWS RIGHT NOW OMG

 

Phil Coulson @hailcaptainamerica

WHAT IS HAPPENING OMG IS THIS REAL SOMEONE PINCH ME @thewintersoldier #capsback

 

Sam Wilson @ibelieveicanfly

YOU’VE GOTTA BE KIDDING ME @thewintersoldier #capsback

 

Bucky’s at home when his phone suddenly begins buzzing nonstop with notifications. He opens up Twitter, stares at the hastag for three seconds before dropping his phone on the floor.

His hand is trembling when he picks his phone back up. And before he even knows it, he’s reaching for the TV remote. On the screen is Time Square, NYPD cars, and—

Steve Rogers _._

Lost and confused but _alive—_

 

 

_June 2012_

 

“So here’s what you do: You find out where he lives—In Brooklyn, I would assume. Go knock on his door and say hi.” Darcy takes a gulp of her coffee, “Why do you have to make this so hard?”

“Because it _is_ hard.” Bucky sighs, running a hand through his hair, frustrated, “Because I can’t just go up and say ‘Hey Stevie I died in 1944 but I’m alive again.’”

“Yes you can. He died in 1944 and he’s alive again. What’s wrong with that?”

“Ugh—fuck. I’m done with you. Your logic doesn’t work well with mine.”

“Barnes, you’re just reluctant to admit that I’m right.”

 

“It’s not that hard, James.” Peggy says on the phone, “Just go see him.”

“But—Pegs, I _can’t_.”

“Yes, you can. You’re just scared.” She sighs, though sounding slightly amused, “Don’t be a coward, Barnes.”

“I’m not! I’m just—not ready. It can wait. ”

“It really can’t. The two of you have already waited seventy years, how much longer do you want?”

She hangs up on him.

 _That woman,_ Bucky thinks. _Sharp as ever._

 

_July 3rd 2012_

 

“What’s your name? Ah—Sharon. I have a friend named Sharon.” He signs the book the girl passes to him, “There you go—You’re welcome. Thank you for coming. Have a nice day.”

He’s doing a book signing at the Barnes & Noble in Midtown when it happens. It’s close to 6pm, and the last of the readers are leaving now. He’s packing up his backpack and the remaining books when he sees the man standing in the corner.

Those blue eyes of his dreams—

He’s been waiting for this moment for so long, and this isn’t how he imagined it. Seeing him alive and well, in his line of vision—It takes his breath away. The name is on his lips, but Bucky can’t find his voice. So he’s just standing there with his mouth hanging open, eyes staring straight at him, feet fixed to the ground.

Steve looks like he might burst into tears any second now. He walks toward Bucky then, slow and deliberate like he might fall otherwise. It’s a long walk, almost too long for Bucky to bear. But then he’s right there, through seventy years of separation, through war, death, and seemingly irreversible fate, _right there_ within the reach of Bucky’s hand. And Bucky almost laughs because of course—

Of course it’s Steve who finds him. Steve always finds him, in games of hide-and-seek when they were kids, at the Hydra base in Azzano, and now—

And Bucky’s never been crazy about religion before, but in that moment he thanks every god, every deity in every faith for bringing him back to him. Bringing him home.

He finds his voice then, and the first thing he says isn’t any of the ones he’s rehearsed before—

“I wasn’t born in 1917.” Bucky says, eyes still fixed on him, “But I am who you think I am.”

“I know.” Steve’s tearing up now, his voice comes out choked, his hands trembling at his sides.

So Bucky finally reaches out and takes his left hand, lacing their fingers together like they used to—

“And I love you, Stevie.” He says it then, and it feels like the sun coming out of the dark clouds, “I love you so much I came back to life for you.”

  

_“When Steve drifts to sleep that night, his strong arms wrapped around his waist, Bucky watches like he wants to keep this sight forever. He wants to carve Steve’s name into his bones, infuse it into his blood, and brand it onto the flesh of his heart so he’ll never forget him again, not even in the next life. But he knows now—knows that nothing can stop him from being right here by Steve’s side. He’ll always fight his way back to him because—if there’s any true logic to this universe, it’s that James Barnes is destined to love Steve Rogers. And if that means he has to come back from the grave, crawl through the tundra of Siberia, bathe in blood for seven decades or even—even burn down heaven and rip apart hell, so be it. He’ll fight anything and everything that stands in his way until he gets to him—his sun, his north, his reason for existing._

_His Steve._

_“Till the end of the line, punk.” He whispers, lips against his skin, “In every goddamned life.””_

(Barnes, J. B. _The End of the Line_. Random House. New York. 2010. Print)

 

 

“My love is a stone tied around my neck. It’s dragging me down to the bottom.

But I love my stone. I can’t live without it.”

-Anton Chekhov, _Th_ _e Cherry Orchard_


	2. Extra: Coming Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Of course it’s Steve who finds him. Steve always finds him, in games of hide-and-seek when they were kids, at the Hydra base in Azzano, and now—  
> And this is how.

_May 2012_

 

It’s all dizzying—The strange-looking cars coming towards him, the buildings that hit the clouds in Midtown that he’s never seen, the giant screens in Time Square that’s surrounding him—

The colors, the light, the noise, the crowd—

This is New York, but this isn’t New York.

“You’ve been asleep, Cap, for almost 70 years.” The man wearing an eye patch says to him.

Steve tries to breathe. The air is thick and heavy and he realizes he doesn't _want_ to be breathing _._

He thinks about Bucky, whether he’s still waiting. And if there’s still a way for him to get to him now—

 _Seventy years._ He closes his eyes, _Christ._

The police sirens are blaring, the crowd is closing in around him, and the man, the director of SHIELD, is looking at him with concerned eyes.

“It’s just,” He says, looking around aimlessly as if he’ll find _him_ somewhere, “I had a date.”

 

 

_July 2nd 2012_

 

“On your left.”

Steve doesn’t know how many times he’s ran past the darker-skinned man sitting on the park bench. The man is reading a book, and every time Steve runs by, he looks up.

This time he closes his book.

“Dude, that’s just unfair.”

And Steve stops and walks towards him, smirking. “What can I say?”

The man smiles, shaking his head—

“Sam Wilson.” He holds out his hand.

“Steve Rogers.” Steve says just to be polite, even though the guy must’ve recognized him.

“You getting used to this 21st century thing yet?”

“It’s—Well, it’s new and exciting and all, but I think I need some more time to catch up. See, I got a list.” Steve pulls out the small notebook in his pocket and shows it to Sam.

“Apple, yes. Linkin Park, that’s important. Star Trek, even more important—” Sam reads off the list with an amused look, but Steve’s losing focus. And when Sam looks up, he finds Steve staring at the book on his lap—

“Ah, this book should also be on your list, man.” Sam holds it up. The book looks worn, and it seems like it’s been read from cover to cover many times. And when Steve sees the title and the author’s name, he freezes.

_The End of the Line by J. B. Barnes_

“You okay, Cap?” Sam frowns, looking concerned, and Steve snaps back to reality, but doesn’t take his eyes off the book cover.

“What is it about?”

“It’s about—Now that I think about it I’m not sure if you’ll like it, because it’s about you. But it’s gorgeously written.” Sam flips through it casually, “I’ve read it for God knows how many times now. Everyone thought you were dead, Cap, but in this novel they find you under the ice, because the serum kept you alive. And _damn_ was the novel a hit, especially after the letters—”

 _The letters._ It hits him then. _Those letters._

“Then people were like—maybe you really are under the ice the whole time. They found your dog tags in the Alps, too, and that sent a whole other wave of people to the Arctic—they even got funding from Tony Stark.”

“Howard’s son—”

“That’s right.” Sam nods, “It’s quite extraordinary, how it all happened. Everyone believed that the author must be a psychic or something.”

“And the author—” Steve asks nervously, staring at the silver colored initials below the title, “What’s his full name?”

“That’s even more bizarre.” Sam laughs, “His name is James Buchanan Barnes, like—”

“Like Bucky.” Steve breathes.

“His parents were fans of the comic books or something.” Sam shrugs. “He's only 27, I think, technically a year older than you, works a day job at the Historical Society. Has a ton of fans on Twitter, too. "

“Look—Sam, can I borrow this book? I'll give it back to you soon.”

“No need. You can keep it. I'm close to memorizing this thing by heart now." Sam hands the book to him. It's a hardcover, solid and warm in his hands, strangely comforting.

Sam checks his phone then—“Ah, the author is doing a signing in Midtown tomorrow, if you wanna go meet him.”

“I'll see. ” Steve nods, starting to walk away, “Thanks, Sam.”

“No problem.” Sam waves, “I'll see you around.”

 

_“Peggy Carter in a red dress is a stunning sight. And with the way Steve looks in his brand new military uniform, they make the perfect pair. She's the right partner Steve's always been waiting to find, she's the only one deserving of him—_

_‘But that's not right’, a voice in him says, angry and menacing, ‘It should've been you.’_

_Bucky looks at Carter before glancing back at Steve and seeing the pure adoration in his bright blue eyes—He's dreamed of being on the receiving end of that gaze. The pang of jealously that hits him then is more painful than the punches and bullets he's taken. Even after Carter walks out, he can't seem to shake the feeling._

_But Steve doesn't notice him, and Bucky is starting to think he never will again.”_

(Barnes, J. B. _The End of the Line_. Random House. New York. 2009. Print)

 

Steve finishes the book at around midnight. He usually reads faster than this, but not today—With this book, he savors every word.

_It doesn’t make sense._

It doesn’t make sense how in the first half, the author is able to capture their life together with words so precise like he had been there to see it: The depression, the winter, his asthma, the war—And the fall. This book isn’t a novel, it’s taken right out of Steve’s memory. And there’s only one person who shared all those memories—

_But that’s impossible._

The second half, on the other hand, breaks his heart. For once he’s glad that Bucky is gone, and didn’t actually live through the decades of pain and torture like the novel describes. But simply reading it is a torture. To think that Bucky could’ve gone through all that without him by his side, without someone there to protect him and remind him of who he really is—The thought alone is a knife stabbed into Steve’s chest.

The ending is supposed to fix it, but it doesn’t, not for Steve—

It’s an ending he’ll never get to have.

Bucky didn’t love him in that way. Bucky loved him like a friend, like a brother—but not like a lover. Everyone looked at him differently after the serum, but Bucky didn’t seem impressed. It made Steve feel so small, like he’s still the five feet, scrawny, asthmatic kid, pretending to be tall in that brand new uniform. He stood by Bucky’s side that way, quietly pining and waiting and hoping until all hope was gone.

Steve wants to go say ‘thank you’ to the author, for telling the truth about him, for showing the world the man he really was. He opens up a web page on his new phone and types in _J. B. Barnes_ , the first thing that comes up is his Wikipedia.

_James Buchanan “Bucky” Barnes_

_American Author, born March 10th, 1985 in Brooklyn, New York_

The photo on the side is loading slowly. And when the full picture appears, Steve almost drops his phone.

It’s the moment when he starts to believe in miracles.

 

 

_July 3rd 2012_

 

The man, no, _Bucky_ , Steve’s sure, is signing the last of the books. He watches from the corner, and Bucky doesn’t notice. But when the last girl leaves, he starts packing up his books and pens, and that’s when he sees him.

Bucky’s staring right at him, surprise flashes in his eyes for a brief second. Steve feels like he might burst into tears any second now. Because that face, _that man—_

Bucky doesn’t look like he’s going to come towards him. The shock has fixed him to the floor, and his mouth is hanging open, his eyes wide like deer in headlights. So Steve walks toward him instead. He keeps his steps slow and steady, or he’d surely fall.

“I wasn’t born in 1917.” When he gets there, Bucky says, “But I am who you think I am.”

“I know.”

And he _does_ know. Steve doesn’t need any proof to know that he _is_ Bucky—In fact, he doesn’t even need to look on his face. Because the truth is—He’ll recognize him anywhere and everywhere, whether in heaven, in hell, or on this earth, at the beginning of time or at the end of the world. He feels tears in his eyes then, clouding his vision—

He’s found him. _At last._

In that moment, Steve thinks there’s nothing that’ll make him feel more grateful for being alive. But then there is—Bucky takes his hand, lacing their fingers together like they used to do back in the day—

“And I love you, Stevie.” Bucky says then, and Steve forgets how to breathe because it’s not real, it _can’t_ be real. But he doesn’t stop, his gaze unwavering—

“I love you so much I came back to life for you.”

 

 

_July 4th 2012_

 

When Steve wakes up that morning, Bucky isn’t next to him.

He panics instantly. His chest is heaving and his lungs stop working properly. He almost thinks it’s an asthma attack, one he hasn’t had in 70 years.

_Was it all just a dream? How Bucky had said he loved him, how they held each other at night when they drifted to sleep—_

Steve only notices a minute later that he isn’t in his own bed. This is Bucky’s apartment, and Bucky’s books, laptop, and coffee mug are still on the bedside table. He starts to calm down, and that’s when the bedroom door opens.

“Hey, you’re up.” Bucky walks over and sits on the edge of the bed, keys, a bag of bread and a mail package in hand, his voice cheerful and bubbly like the summer air. But he frowns when he sees the expression on Steve’s face—anxious and lost, one that he knows too well. And when Steve reaches out and pulls him into a tight embrace, he just hugs him back.

“I—” Steve chokes up, “I thought—”

“You thought it wasn’t real.” Bucky finishes it for him, because he’s always been able to do that. Then he turns to kiss Steve’s temple, carding his fingers through his hair. “Don’t be an idiot.”

After a long moment, Bucky lets go of Steve, before grabbing the package on the bed and ripping it open.

“I pulled some strings to get this one.” He takes the small object out of the bag, before dropping it into Steve’s hand, “Happy birthday.”

It’s his dog tags.

“I—How—?”

“Some hiking group found it in the Alps—You know, had it around my neck when I fell and all.” Bucky cocks his head, smirking, “I have a friend at the Smithsonian. She kind of—stole it when they got it as a donation.”

“Wow. I should meet her.”

“Fuck. The two of you would so get along. Troublemakers.” Bucky rubs his left temple, “Anyway. Giving it back to its rightful owner now.”

“Actually, that’s you, not me.” Steve shakes his head, tugging at the collar of his t-shirt, before pulling out a matching chain. “And I’d rather keep yours.”

“You still have it?!”

“’Course. Had it under the ice with me the whole time.” Steve fiddles with it, smiling so wide his face almost hurts, “Think it’s what kept me alive.”

“Still a hopeless romantic, Rogers.”

Steve puts the chain around Bucky’s neck. The tags fall right over his heart, where they belong.

“Only for you, Barnes.”

And when Bucky leans over to kiss him, Steve tastes heaven on his lips. Everything he needs, he’s got right now, right here.

He suddenly remembers what he wrote in that last letter, all those years ago. And he wants to tell the world now, tell it out loud—

_He’s home._

 

 

“So, till the judgment that yourself arise,

You live in this, and dwell in lover's eyes.”

-William Shakespeare _Sonnet LV_


	3. Extra: Reader Reaction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peggy Carter reacts to the novel in the best way possible.

_February 2010_

“Pegs, a shooting range? Are you crazy?”

“I’m most certainly not, Barnes.” All the staff members at the range look scared as hell when they walk by, mostly because Peggy fucking Carter is over 90 years old and she wants to practice _shooting_.

With _real_ _guns_. _Bullets_.

“That book was way too depressing. I need to take it out on something.” Peggy loads her gun as she walks toward an empty spot on the far end of the range. She turns to glare at Bucky, “You’re responsible.”

Bucky almost shudders. “Should I be glad that you’re shooting at a target and not at me?”

“Probably.” She tries to suppress a smile, “Should’ve seen Steve’s face when I shot at him that one time—”

“Wait, what?” Bucky pulls back, horrified, “When the fuck did this happen?”

“Trust me, you don’t want to know.” She’s laughing out loud now, shaking her head, “You would’ve done the same.”

 

It surprises Bucky how fast he picks up on handling guns—or more precisely, how quickly it all comes back to him.

They sit down to take a break. Peggy’s hands had been shaking during the shoot, even though she tried hard to control them, it still affected the results.

“You’re just as good as you used to be.” She sighs, dreamily, “His best sniper.”

“It feels right—it puts me back into myself.”

She glances at him, amused, “I should get Nick to recruit you for SHIELD.”

“Nah.” Bucky shakes his head, “Spandex is for Steve.”

“Maybe you can get a suit like the one you have in the book.”

Bucky is _not_ tempted.

 

When he joins the Avengers at Stark Tower three years later, his hand clasped with Steve's as they walk in, the first thing he says to Tony Stark is—

“I have some ideas about the uniform.”

 

 


	4. Extra: The Future

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> July 5th 2082, Steve Rogers dies at the age of 96.

_July 4th 2082_

“—He was just standing there, dumbstruck, so I walked toward him instead. And I remember the moment he said he loved me, I started sobbing so hard I couldn’t even see. Then he put his arms around me like he used to when I still got asthma, and we were just hugging in the middle of a bookstore. People stared at us like we were crazy, but we didn’t give a damn.”

Rebecca pours her father a glass of water, and holds it for him as he drinks. To her, Steve Rogers at the age of ninety-six is still one hell of a handsome man. Sure, he’s got wrinkles, and his golden hair has gone all grey, but Rebecca can still find in those azure eyes the courage, kindness and strength she’s known since the day she first called him ‘dad’. She can see all the way back to that one time in her teenage years, when he and Bucky came pick her up after school in their uniforms, simply because she had been bullied by some popular girls. She remembers the look of complete awe on her classmates’ faces, but most importantly the way they looked standing together—It made her feel like the luckiest girl in the world.

And she knows, too, without Bucky now, Steve’s only half a soul.

“Later he took me to his apartment, we ordered pizza and watched movies all night.”

“You didn’t—you know, make up for lost time?” She asks teasingly, and sets the glass down on the bedside table.

To her surprise, her father doesn’t blush. He simply smiles and cocks his head——

“Let’s just say, we had plenty of time to do that afterwards.”

Rebecca lets out a surprised laugh, “Oh God, dad, I’m not sure if I should be scandalized or feel happy for the two of you.”

“The next morning though, I woke up and he wasn’t there. I thought it was a dream or something. Then he came back and handed me my dog tags, which I’d given him before he fell in 1944. Guess what? Darcy stole it from the Smithsonian. I had to write them an apology letter afterwards.” Smiling wearily, he pulls out the silver chain he has around his neck and starts fiddling with it. Rebecca sees the name on it then, and she stares in surprise.

“But that’s papa’s.”

“Yeah. I made him keep mine, and I kept his, because I felt as if they were what kept us safe.” Rebecca watches as he slips the chain back inside his shirt, the tags falling right against his heart. “It sounds silly, I know.”

“It’s not.” She reaches out and takes his hands in hers. After a beat, she adds, “I’m glad you found papa.”

“No, Becca,” He closes his eyes for a brief second, “He found me, too.”

Rebecca stays quiet for a moment. She’s not sure how to respond to that, because she knows now, Steve must be aching to find him again, in another world.

 _He wants to go._ That thought makes Rebecca wants to smile and tear up at the same time.

“Tell me about the wedding.” She settles for that instead, “It’s so weird. There’s only, like, one photo.”

“Oh, well.” Steve laughs, “That’s an even better one.”

 

Riley comes in then, bringing Rebecca her coffee as well as some soup in a bowl for Steve. He sits down and puts an arm around Rebecca’s shoulder.

“What did I miss?”

“You’re just in time for the wedding story.”

“Sit tight for this, Riley, cause I about gave your dad a heart attack.” Steve tries to sit up, and Rebecca reaches over to put the pillow behind him.

“The day the Supreme Court ruled on marriage equality—That was, what, 2015? Christ, almost seventy years ago. I had to make this speech about it in front of the president. At the end of it, I proposed. It was totally improvised, and thank God Mr. President wasn’t mad at all. In fact, he said congratulations on Twitter—Wait, I don’t think you even know what Twitter is. Anyway. Bucky said yes. ” Steve pauses, “We holed up at home to avoid the media storm. But that wasn’t even the worst of it.”

Steve smiles fondly at the memory, and she feels Riley leaning forward in expectation. Rebecca gets this bad feeling—

“Tony decided to plan our wedding. He set the date for July 4th.”

“Oh my God, no way.” Rebecca covers her face with her hands, laughing.

“You bet. It was crazy. And on the night of our bachelor parties, we just couldn’t handle it anymore.” Steve turns to Riley, “Bucky came to the bar I was at. We decided to elope. Your dad and Natasha were so drunk they fell asleep. So we stole the rings from him, rented a car and left.”

“Christ.” Riley barks out a laugh, “Don’t think the old man was happy about that. Where did you go?”

“We went to the Grand Canyon. A minister on vacation married us. That’s why there was only that one photo.” Shaking his head, Steve looks down at the ring on his left hand. It still fits perfectly.

“And when we came back— _damn_ was Sam mad. Stark almost declared a war on me. Natasha wouldn't talk to me for a week, but that was mostly because she didn’t get to see us in the tuxedos she picked.” Rebecca laughs, because that is totally what Natasha would do.

“But, you know. We didn’t regret doing it. It was supposed to be about us, not politics or publicity.” Steve shrugs.

She finally understands then, why he had so adamantly refused to allow press at her wedding, and why Sam had agreed with him wholeheartedly. “After all, Becca, you’re half Rogers and half Barnes. And I still want to actually _see_ my son get married.” Sam had told her at one point. She and Riley had both been confused, and Bucky had laughed without saying a word.

“Anything else you kids wanna know?” Steve asks. Rebecca snaps out of her bubble and blinks. There _is_ something, but she’s not sure—

“What—What actually happened to papa’s arm?”

 

She sees her father go still all of a sudden, lowering his eyes. There’s a long silence. But just as she’s about to take the question back, he answers.

“He lost it in a mission.” Steve pauses, swallowing hard as if it’s painful to talk, “Protecting me.”

She holds her breath. No one had told her about this, and whenever she asked Bucky about his metal arm, he just shook his head and said it was a mission incident, and Tony made him a new one. But now that she knows, it dawns on her because of course—

Of course he was protecting him. In her head, the fact that her fathers would risk everything for each other is the law of the universe. That kind of love defeats death and destiny. Perhaps, ever since the moment they found each other more than a century ago in an alley in Brooklyn, it was the two of them against the rest of the world.

But what she hears then breaks her heart all over again—

“It was just a year after we joined the Avengers. We were at a Hydra base in Moscow when we got ambushed. They had managed to take down Natasha and Barton, and our backup was also compromised. We were on the roof of this massive building, it was snowing heavily outside and it felt so familiar, but I had no idea why.”

Rebecca sees tears in her father’s eyes then, a glinting sadness.

“I was wounded bad, so when they came at me, your papa picked up the shield to protect the two of us. I wanted to stop him. A fear crept up on me then, because I realized—everything looked too similar to 1944.” Steve pauses, his voice starting to sound a bit choked, “Then it happened. He was falling off the roof and I was too late to catch him.”

Rebecca’s mouth drops open. She glances at Riley, and sees that his eyes are wide like deer in headlights.

“But this time I jumped after him.I thought then, if he has to die, I want to die with him this time.” Steve casts his gaze down, his lips pressed in a hard line like he’s in pain, a look Rebecca’s too familiar with ever since Bucky’s passing.

“When I was sitting by his hospital bed after the amputation surgery, I wouldn’t even talk to Sam or Natasha, wouldn’t stop blaming myself for not stopping him in time. That was when it occurred to me that he _knew_. He knew the shield was too heavy for him. He knew it’d be 1944 all over again but he didn’t _care_.”

She hears herself gasp, and Riley’s grip tightens on her shoulder. Steve’s voice is trembling but he doesn’t stop—

‘Soon after he first woke up, I started yelling at him. He yelled back because he thought it was stupid of me to jump off with him. All the doctors and nurses tried to quiet us down. But we wouldn’t stop. I was close to hysterical, questioning him why he’d risked his life in such an idiotic way. And gosh—He was still doped up on painkillers and his logic made absolutely no sense, but he said one thing, and that shut me up—”

“‘ _You_ are my life,’ he said.” Closing his eyes, Steve lets out a shaky breath. “And in that moment I thought, God, what did I ever do to deserve this man?”

 

Later that night, Rebecca brings Steve paper and pen the way she has been doing for the past few days. She doesn’t know what he’s been writing or sketching, but she doesn’t ask either.

Yet today’s different. Steve calls her and Riley in half an hour later, and sits them down by his bed.

“Son,” He turns to Riley first, “I know I’ve said this when the two of you got married. But treat Becca well, okay? Make her happy. You’re the only one who can now.”

“Dad—” She starts to tear up then, sensing where the conversation is going, “Don’t say that.”

“Becca.” He takes the stack of letters on his bedside table, “Bury these with me when I go, will ya?”

“Dad! Not yet, alright?” She’s outright sobbing then, tears streaming down her cheeks and she doesn’t even bother to wipe them. “Not yet.”

“Oh, sweetheart. I can feel it. It’s time.” Steve gives her a smile, not of fear or sadness but more of peace. “I can’t let him wait too long this time.”

 

The next morning, he doesn’t wake up.

 

The envelopes are blank and unsealed. There are seven of them, which is vaguely reminiscent of the ones Steve wrote in 1944. As Rebecca flips through them later that night, she has an idea who they’re meant for.

“You should read them.” Riley walks up to her, wrapping his jacket around her frail shoulders. “I think that’s why he left them all open. He wants you to remember their story for them.”

He turns back to leave the room, giving her some space to be alone. Rebecca opens the first one with trembling hands. The pages are neatly folded, and her father’s beautiful old-school cursive fills the lines—

 

_“I think I’ve forgotten how hard life is without you, Buck. It’s been more than a century since the last time I felt this way, but it doesn’t make it any less painful. I’ve known—I’ve known since the day I found you again in 2010, that even if we do get to grow old together, I’d have to lose you again._

_So when the serum started to wear off, I felt so relieved because I thought maybe this time I get to die before you do. It sounds selfish, I know._

_I changed my mind soon, though. Remember when I first went back to painting and you went back to curating at the museum? We’d just sit in Central Park on Sunday afternoons, I’d be sketching and you’d be reading, and life was never better._

_And then—The day we brought Becca home, I watched you walk around the house with her in your arms, introducing her to everything new. She was giggling and clapping, kissing you on the cheek, and you were smiling so wide. I knew then that I’d fight gods and monsters to have this in every life. Then if I must endure the pain of losing you over and over again, I’d cope too.”_

_“It’s strange to think about it. Sam was first, then Clint, Natasha, Tony—I thought he could’ve lived longer, but maybe it was those all-nighters in the lab. Bruce had disappeared to God knows where, and even Thor stopped coming to visit. There were the two of us left, but now you’re gone too._

_The worst thing about death for most people is the sense of unknown—They wonder where they’ll end up: heaven or hell or somewhere in between. For me it’s close but not quite—I don't care where I end up, but I do care if it’s where you are._

_But even if it’s not, it’ll be fine, because I know we’ll find each other, no matter how long it takes._

_And no, jerk. I haven’t gotten sick of you, and I’m starting to think I never will. Seventy years may be long, but it’s not nearly long enough._

_It’ll never be long enough.”_

Rebecca doesn’t realize she’s crying until she gets to the last letter. This one is sealed, though, with just one piece of tape. She hesitates for a long moment before slowly pealing it off—She feels like she’s ten years old again, when she hid in Natasha’s wardrobe and tried on her four-inch heels. But she soon decides that this is different. Like what Riley said, whatever it is, if she doesn’t remember it for them, it’d be lost forever.

_“I don’t know if you remember this—One time at Sunday school, the nuns were teaching about sins and afterlife, and they read us that passage from Leviticus. They said it was lustful and inherently wrong. You walked right out when you heard it, and I followed you quietly onto the sidewalk. I’d thought you never paid much attention to the Bible, but then you began reciting from the first book of Samuel—_

_‘…the soul of Jonathan was knit with the soul of David, and Jonathan loved him as his own soul.’_

_You’d turned to look right at me, yet I didn’t understand what you really meant—Or more precisely, I didn't dare to. Even now I’m still not certain that I deserve to be the David to your Jonathan, but you are right about one thing—_

_My soul is knit with yours, since long before we were even alive. Our first sin wasn’t lust. It was love.”_

_“……Born in 1918, Captain Rogers in fact lived for over one and a half century. But in the decades he spent frozen in the ice of the Arctic, he almost did not age at all. At the age 96, Rogers was the last of the original Avengers to pass away. His husband as well as a member of the Avengers team, James Buchanan Barnes, died only three months ago._

_Interestingly, the supersoldier serum that enhanced Rogers’ body in 1943 could’ve arguably prolonged his life. However, it is recently revealed by official sources that in Rogers’ fifties, the effects of the serum had started to expire. This eventually led to his and Barnes’ sudden retirement from S.H.I.E.L.D. Afterwards, the couple was seldom seen participating in supersoldier affairs. Rogers had gone back to painting, which had been his occupation before Project Rebirth. Barnes, on the other hand, was hired as the curator of the New York Historical Society, where he had worked prior to his recruitment by S.H.I.E.L.D. Their daughter, Rebecca Margaret Rogers, was adopted soon after._

_When interviewed regarding the Captain’s burial, Ms. Rogers claimed that she has declined the President’s offer for both her fathers’ graves to be moved to Arlington National Cemetery._

_“This isn’t about the heroes they once were. Captain America didn’t die, Steve Rogers did. And Steve Rogers would want nothing more than being buried right next to Bucky Barnes, in the city they call home.” Ms. Rogers said, “In the words of my dad, they were just two boys from Brooklyn.”_

_(“Two Boys from Brooklyn”. New York Times. Jul 6 2082. Print.)_

 

_“I am distressed for thee, my brother Jonathan:_

_very pleasant hast thou been unto me:_

_thy love to me was wonderful, passing the love of women._

_How are the mighty fallen, and the weapons of war perished!”_

_2 Samuel 1:26-27_


	5. D23 Bonus: My Best Sniper

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a battle, Steve re-reads a letter he wrote in 1944.  
> (Derived from the D23 trailer: The scene with Bucky and Steve on the battlefield together, Bucky at Steve's six with a sniper rifle.)

_August 2015_

 

_ “I almost got shot on the back of my left shoulder last week—You’d probably yell at me for this, and give me that long lecture of yours. But the thing is, Buck, I turned around after the bullet went by me—it only grazed my uniform I swear—I turned around and looked for you, looked for you everywhere because it didn’t make sense to me how you would let that slip. But then I saw Falsworth staring right at me with those sad eyes— _

_ And I remembered.” _

 

 

Steve carefully folds the worn paper back to its original shape and sticks it back into the envelope. Along with the rest of the letters, he places it back into the bottom of drawer. Looking back now at the words he wrote all those years ago, it hits him—Steve Rogers in 1944 would not have thought that one day, Bucky Barnes might come back to him, guarding his six on the battlefield the way he’s done for all their lives.

Steve wonders how on earth he deserves _this_.

The first time he’d sparred with Natasha, she took him by surprise and attacked him from the back. It was a dirty move, but standard for any villain. Natasha had been surprised at his inability to block that move, and had started giving him advice on it until Steve stopped her with a knowing smile.

“It’s alright.” He shrugged, “Don’t worry about it.”

It wasn’t until the Battle of New York, when Bucky picked up a sniper rifle and followed him onto the field, did Natasha realize what Steve had meant. Five minutes into the fight, She looked at the both of them from the other side of a burning car, and shook her head bemusedly.

Steve’s still deep in thought when Bucky comes into the bedroom carrying an armful of guns. He’s wearing a tank top and some shorts, his hair up in a short ponytail. He sits down next to Steve on the bed, and starts wiping his gun barrels with a towel. They took down some nasty alien creatures yesterday, and Bucky’s favorite rifle is still covered in disgusting mucus. The battle was short, but Steve was at the center of it. So Bucky stayed close by him, taking out any threat that came his way.

Bucky’s now looking at Steve with confusion in his eyes. He probably doesn’t understand why Steve had decided to read those letters. After Steve came back, they’d asked for the original copies from the Smithsonian, but Steve had always refused to even look at them. He didn’t want to remember those dark days after the fall, and he didn’t want to relive the excruciating pain from the loss. But it’s different now—The rings on their left hand glints underneath the warm bedroom lights. They don’t need marriage to prove anything. But if a pair of rings and a wedding vow can pull their inseparable lives even closer, Steve isn’t going to pass on the chance.

He turns around and smiles at his husband as he takes his hand. The shells on Bucky’s lap fall all over the place, making a clinking sound when they hit the floor.

“Steve?”

Steve just pulls Bucky into his arms, and leans on his left shoulder to kiss the scarred skin in between metal and flesh. Bucky trembles involuntarily, and runs his hands through Steve’s hair in attempt to comfort him.

“Did something happen? What’s wrong?”

But Steve just shakes his head and remains silent. He moves to the sensitive skin on Bucky’s neck, leaving a trail of soft wet kisses along the way, and eventually finds his warm lips.

Bucky’s used to this sort of intimacy. He simply opens his mouth pliantly and lets Steve in. But Steve can feel the nervous tension in his spine. So he rubs his back soothingly and flips them over, trapping Bucky underneath, only to see him visibly relax.

He tries to be as gentle as possible, exploring his body with infinite amount of patience. The sweltering New York summer night envelops them, and soon they were coated in sweat, but Bucky only wraps his legs around his waist a little bit tighter, and Steve thinks he’s slowly drowning in a pouring wave of affection rather than lust.

The lie peacefully in bed afterwards, bodies wrapped around each other. The glass windows are wide open, the night breeze comes through, and Steve can see through the gap between the thin curtains the river of lights on the Brooklyn Bridge. Bucky hums something against his chest and he turns back, catching his left hand to place a kiss on his ring finger, his lips warming the cool metal of his hand and the wedding ring.

“I’m so glad I found you.”

“Me too, Stevie. Me too.”

Bucky doesn’t ask why he’s reacting the way he does, but Steve knows he’s probably figured it out. It’s natural—The things they’ve been through make it extra common for them to appreciate those little things as if they’re God-given gifts.

“My best sniper.” Steve closes his eyes and buries his nose in Bucky’s soft dark hair, murmuring “My Bucky.”

He feels Bucky moving, placing his head right against where his heart is beating loud. His left hand reaches out to touch the dog tags on his neck. Steve thinks with overwhelming awe about how those flimsy looking pieces of metal have been through time and ice and cold, yet the etchings of Bucky’s name is still visible and clear.

“Yours." Steve hears him whispering back, "Always yours."


	6. Author's Notes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Author's notes

I slipped some personal details into this fic, mostly to give nods to some superheros/characters that aren’t explicitly mentioned, as well as fics that have influenced me. I don’t know how much you guys caught, but I’m gonna list them now, including some other side notes and inspirations.

 

-Reincarnation: I’m also a Arthur/Merlin shipper, and reincarnation is a very common concept in the merthur fandom, but I’ve never really seen any in the stucky fandom. So there it goes.

-“that small bookstore on Princes St”: McNally Jackson. My favorite bookstore in NYC, within a few blocks of NYU.

-Stan the Guard: Of course, cameo of Mr. Stan Lee, as well as a tribute to one of my favorite Stucky fics ‘The Smithsonian Guard’

-“Whatever happens to the sun, the effects won’t be felt on Earth until eight minutes after.”: This is due to the speed of light. I’ve always loved this concept. The whole extended metaphor of the sun is also a vague reference to Icarus.

-“But there’s one thing they need to get right, one thing I want written in history books.”: An idea derived from my favorite Regina Spektor song, Samson.

-“I loved him. I loved him. And I think I—I still love him.” Inspired by Lana Del Rey’s National Anthem.

-Agent 14 @girlnextdoor: play off of Agent 13/Sharon Carter

-“I remember hearing my father talk about them when I was younger.”: Headcanon is that Howard’s always known about their mutual pining.

\- Tony Stark @iamironman and J.A.R.V.I.S @propertyoftonystark: this one’s pretty obvious.

\- Sam Wilson @ibelieveicanfly: His twitter handle. I really hope people got that.

\- “You don’t know how many dreams I’ve dreamed about you, And just how empty they all seemed without you.”“It’s been a long, long time.”: The song playing in the bar is the song Fury played in Cap’s apartment in CATWS before Bucky shoots him. It’s written in 1945 about a soldier coming home from the war to his lover. These two lines seemed particularaly fit for Stucky.

\- Jesse the editor from Random House: Tribute to my favorite Jewnicorn fic “The Giraffe Notes”

\- Barnes & Noble: Because that is actually a ship-nickname for Stucky. The staff member who did the book review named Jemma—reference to Agent Jemma Simmons from SHIELD.

\- Sebastian Evans @aroamingromanian: Slipping some Evanstan in here.

\- (Parker, Peter. “The All-American Search Team”. The New Yorker. 22 Mar 2012. Print.): Spiderman’s day job is now at the New Yorker. Also March 22nd is my birthday ;)

\- “If there’s any true logic to this universe, it’s that James Barnes is destined to love Steve Rogers.”: A nod to a deleted line in Star Trek XI, from Kirk to Spock. “If there’s any true logic to this universe, we’ll end up on that bridge again some day.”

 

This the first time I’ve poured into a fic so much of my love for Stucky. To me, Stucky isn’t just a ship, it’s the ultimate definition of love. The whole purpose of this fic boils down to one thing: I hope they find each other in every life, in every universe. Thanks to all of you who read it and left me all those kind comments. It’s been a wild ride.

 

 

Update: A future-related extra/sequel have been posted in chapter five.


End file.
